Rule of Twelve
by owlseeker
Summary: Twelve murders that seem to have no linking to each other and a killer that seems to be bloodthirstier than Moriarty himself. Will Sherlock accept the curious case and find out the mystery hidden behind it? Or will he simply consider it a worthless case?
1. Chapter 1

**~Prologue~**

**221B Baker Street, London, 15****th**** August, 11 am**

It was one of those dramatically boring and annoyingly monotonous summers. Nothing ever happened. Not a single rubbery or crime in three weeks, and Sherlock's mind felt like rotting. What was the point in having a computer-like brain when you couldn't even use it?

John's blog entries were as dull as their current lives: usually short, nagging commentaries on how Sherlock did nothing else but shoot the walls or close himself in his mind palace.

But for some reason still untold, today seemed to be different. Not only did Sherlock wake up early, a sickeningly joyous smile plastered on his face, but he also prepared not one but two mugs of coffee – one for himself and the other one left, for John.

At the other side of the apartment, John sat on a chair observing bemused his friend's strange behavior. But "strange" was not a word that could actually mark something unusual happening in Sherlock Holmes' life, for strangeness gravitated around him, just like the Earth around the Sun. Strange was his day by day conduct. This, however, was simply uncommon for the consulting detective of Baker Street 221B.

Whatever happened, whatever made Sherlock come out of his cave and actually at least seem to enjoy the beautiful summer day, seemed to take over his entire mind and body. John knew very well it must be something to do with a crime, and judging by the way his friend was pacing, it was _not only _a crime, it was so much more than that. In all the months he's been living with the detective, Dr. Watson had learned more about crimes than in his entire life. First rule about crimes was that none of them was as simple as the murderers made it look like and they should be all interpreted correctly. Second rule was that a crime that in the eye of the beholder seemed riddled, was, in fact, half as complicated as an average crime. But then again, he had been working with the only consulting detective in the world, and if they were sincere to themselves, he was probably also the best the world had ever seen.

Sherlock stopped walking around the living room, staring at Watson as he was helplessly trying to find something eatable in the fridge.

"Can you smell it, John?"

"I'm sorry, what? The only thing I smell is the dead corpse in our fridge. Why is he sliced, dear God." the Doctor commented for himself, slamming the door of the fridge shut. Sherlock ignored his last, aggressive remark, finding it worthless to explain the body was there for a yet unfinished experiment.

"_The Crime, _John. It's happening!"

John locked his eyes on his flat mate, as if he were some psychopath who escaped from a hospital for people with mental problems.

"No, I can't _smell _a crime. "

"Oh, how I pity you, John. You and your boring little life." he then replied, a wide smile on his face as his hand reached for his phone.

"Ehm, okay. I'll leave you to your fantasizing over the moment Lestrade will desperately call to ask for your help, because he apparently has no idea how to solve a case."

Though the doctor's last comment was nagging and meant to hurt Sherlock for insulting his life, the man seemed to not even observe the not-so-subtle hearsay.

"Oh, when does he not need me? He'll call soon, you shall see."

**Abbey Lane, London, 15****th**** August, 4 am**

Carlotta Edgar heard something. She was sure of that, but what was the sound her ears caught, she couldn't exactly tell. Maybe it was the wind blowing; maybe it was the rain outside. It could've been the neighbor next door arriving home. Whatever it was, she had to make sure it wasn't anything concerning. Oh and what a terrible mistake she did by leaving her bed. Her death would have probably been less painful, but fate works in funny ways and the mind of human beings works even stranger than fate.

She left her warm, comfortable cocoon to check down in the kitchen. It wasn't a long way to the kitchen, but it took her a while until she found the switcher. The clock on the wall seemed to have stopped at 4 am pointedly and a cold shiver flew down her spine. As the single, paranoid woman she was, she had always been suspicious over everything, and the fact that the clock stopped at that particular hour scared her. Some would say she knew what her fate was; some would just say the clock's batteries went off. But the clock is not the main character in this story, and neither is Carlotta Edgar. They're just figurants, characters that come and go, but which surely leave thick traces behind.

The 54 years old woman did three terrible mistakes on the morning of the 15th August: she went out of bed when she heard a strange noise coming from the deserted kitchen; she went to check by herself, although she knew she had issues with her heart and pulse and she decided to drink a mug of milk. The last mistake is surely the most crucial one. She could've chosen coffee instead of milk, and she would've probably survived, but no, instead she went for the white, thick liquid, that mixed up with poison, let her die in pain, until the next morning the maid would find her crawled on the floor, and she would reluctantly call for the police.

The police's conclusion? **Suicide. **

Every time the police didn't actually care for a case or they were just not very concerned by it, they tagged it as being _suicide_. Woman found dead in the kitchen, although she had no reason to take her own life? Probably a suicide. Luckily enough, Inspector Lestrade has been working for a while now with Sherlock Holmes and learned that every single case mattered. Just the other day he heard John Watson complaining that there hadn't been an interesting case in a while. This was Sherlock's chance to use his ingenious mind again, and Greg Lestrade wouldn't miss such a chance for the world.

**221B Baker Street, London, 15****th**** August, 1pm **

John left get some food half an hour before a police car would stop in front of their apartment. When he would return, he wouldn't be shocked to see Lestrade and Holmes talking about something that he supposed to be a crime. (Truthfully, the only one talking was Lestrade, who seemed more like trying to convince Sherlock over something he didn't want to believe.)

"Ah, John. C'mon get in the cab. We're going to solve a crime."

"But my food …" the doctor looked down at the bag in his hands, sighing desperate as he lazily walked to the cab.

"Your food can wait, John. "

"Actually, I beg to differ. Dead people … they don't go anywhere, because they're _dead_, Sherlock!"

"Wrong. They go to autopsy."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Minutiae of two slummy crimes

**Abbey Lane, London, 15****th**** August, 2pm**

The cab driver was dangerously talkative and for his own good, John hoped he would stop blabbering about the importance of a good Government before Sherlock would silent him with a seamy comment. To his surprise, the detective was swallowed in his thoughts so deep, that he didn't even hear the man talking. He wondered what the aspects of the crime were, for they seemed to interest Sherlock more than the previous ones. Maybe Moriarty's imprint was left on this particular crime, or maybe he was only excited someone had finally perpetrated a crime. Either way, John was happy he would deal with a morose and silent flat mate no more.

"So what's the crime? ", John asked just as the door opened.

"54 year old woman, widow with a 20 and something year old daughter studying abroad, librarian, most likely poisoned. No signs of violence of any kind. Oh should I mention that she lived alone and that she moved recently to Abbey Lane?" the voice of a woman echoed in the cab. Both men turned their heads around, one looking more surprised than the other, to see that this time it wasn't Donovan the one to welcome them at the place of the crime scene. She must've been in her early thirties, her long red hair, brushing the sides of her shoulders. It would be a lie to state that she wasn't beautiful, but it would be a crime to state that she looked human-like. The woman was peculiar, in the most poisonous and scary way one could imagine. Her ice-cold, blue eyes glowed in the light of the summer day, revealing no trace of sentiment. John was so impressed by this _alien_ that he shivered considerably at the sight of her.

"Back and up for new cases, Crale?" Sherlock questioned after a significant silence.

"Call it whatever you like, Holmes, but I don't plan on staying." she responded, a faint smile forming from the corners of her thick colored lips.

"Have you ever?" he replied reluctantly, following her through the crowd of policemen.

"Where's Donovan?" John asked, running after the two of them, trying to keep up with their steadfast pace. It was one of the things he envied about Sherlock; he was tall and therefore able to move ten times faster than him. He couldn't quite put a finger on who was the woman or where Donovan was, but Holmes seemed to be his usual reticence about the whole matter, so he didn't insist when none of them answered his question.

"I'm afraid Anderson is here." the moment said finally, as if she would answer a silent question, that John didn't seem to catch. "I must admit I forgot how much of a pain in the ass he can be."

"No more than usual, I suppose. Come along, Crale."

The house was stuffed with hundreds of things that John found particularly useless. They were pictures all around, hanging on walls, staring at him from bookshelves, or simple lying on commodes. Everything seemed to be where it should have been. If he didn't know a crime had been committed in that residence, he would have thought Sherlock had brought him to visit an old friend. It was all so domestic, it seemed surreal to think someone died in that place.

"Keep your mind focused", Sherlock told him, handing him a pair of rubber gloves. "We have a case to solve. There's no time for admiring pictures, John. Where's the body?"

"Kitchen", answered a well-known voice. "But there's nothing for you to see there. Arlena, you can announce Lestrade that the woman did herself in." Anderson's mouth became a hard line, as he hissed the last sentence at the woman next to Sherlock. He was dressed in his usual, blue costume, fingers entwined around his kit.

The red-haired woman named Arlena stood emotionless for what were twenty seconds, before she would point somewhere in the near distance. "There's the kitchen, Holmes. Do your deducing." John could see him nodding appreciatively, as he made his way through the living room of the deceased woman. In the background he could still hear Anderson's nagging voice, complaining. "Why did you just let him in?"

"I'm following Lestrade's orders and if you disagree with his decisions, maybe you should leave this division." He supposed that line made Anderson shut up for once, for his voice was nowhere to hear anymore.

In the kitchen, lying on the floor, was a woman, face pointed at the ceiling, eyes closed. As Arlena said, there was no sign of physical violence. She could've been easily remained unnoticed, for she seemed to be drowned in a dreamless slumber.

"What do you think, John?"

"There's not much to tell about her."

"Wrong."

"What?"

"I said wrong. Look at the necklace; it must have cost a mint of money. No way could a single woman – a librarian, for that matter- afford such a delight. What are we deducing out of this information? She had someone, someone with a wealthy fortune. Another proof is that she moved recently to Abbey Lane, into a new house, a house she probably couldn't pay for herself. Someone's been paying a lot of attention to her. But there's the wedding ring on her finger. She was married once, probably loved her husband, and therefore would never give up the memory of him-"

"Wait. The _memory of him_?"

"We'll he's obviously dead."

"Obviously?"

"Sherlock is right. The woman's a widow. Her husband, Roger Edgar died two years ago of a heart attack. About the man who gave her all these expansive presents, we have information that she's been seeing a politician, Matthew Lamson.", Arlena came into the kitchen just then, to find John staring incredulously at Sherlock and the other one, bent over the body to examine it. "You might also want to know … we found this lying next to the body."

In her hand was a folded piece of paper. She reached it out for Sherlock to see it.

"What does it say?" John asked curiously, as none of them would show him anything. It was the same with every case; Sherlock kept all for himself. He felt like an outsider.

"_The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast._" Sherlock read , his cold voice echoing in the small room.

"Oscar Wilde", the woman informed them. "Do you think we can get any information from this about the murderer?"

The detective didn't answer. Instead, his eyebrows furrowed, almost forming a thick line just above his eyes. He seemed to be concentrating on something, a thread none of them had seen before. Observing unnoticeable details was, after all, what he was being best at. "Lord Arthur Savile's crime", he spoke quietly to himself, strutting his head to his adhered hands. "Clever. Very clever."

"Would you mind illuminating us with your discovery? I'm afraid my mind is not able to see what you're pointing at. It's just a quote from Oscar Wilde's works."

There was a silent moment in which John looked up into Sherlock's eyes and he could easily see what his friend meant.

"_Aconite. _It got wind through Wilde's story." John explained, waving through the thin air as he spoke.

"Aconite is a poison that, after ingestion, creates respiratory paralysis and, even in small amounts, brings death upon the person who took it. She probably drank it, out of that mug." He pointed at a mug, almost imperceptible, placed on top of the microwave. "Get your men to inspect it, but the murderer already left us the information about how he managed to kill the woman. Now the only question is-"

"Why.", John finished for him. "It's good to see you're back in business, Sherlock."

However this small compliment, Sherlock Holmes, in his very own, usual way, ignored it completely, walking around the room, as he seemed to be trying to solve a very complicated puzzle in his mind. He continued his pacing, when, out of a sudden he stopped, turning around at them. At the same time, Gregory Lestrade burst into the kitchen.

"There's been a second one." Sherlock spoke, before the Inspector could. "Brilliant. Come, John, we've got cases to solve. Oh, and Crale, talk to the politician. You never know what those folks hide."


End file.
